Pathway to Japanese Literature

Mole

I

The thicket overrun with shrubs and weeds ran like a wave along the long, long hillside from one mixed forest to another.

The newly reclaimed field where brambles grew spread mottled with dark patches from the valley toward the summit.

Umezō’s reclamation area, cultivated at four sen and five rin per tsubo, extended from behind the hut built facing the valley’s murmuring stream.

Now the green grass seethed with heat.
The vibrant green grass, bursting with vitality, had completely covered the gentle slope rising from behind the hut in swirling vortices.
In the green grass, crimson-purple field thistle flowers floated up, and azalea blossoms smoldered.
And the white mountain strawberry flowers already spilled onto the miscanthus leaves.
If forced to describe it in a single phrase, it was a vast carpet of green earth scattered with flowers.
And the reclaimed areas spread jet-black, as if ink had been spilled, expanding with each swing of Umezō’s hoe from where he stood.

“Father!
“This tree... what a shame.”
“It’s a bearberry tree…”

Yōkichi struck a small shrub with his sickle to demonstrate.

“Yokki—still goin’ on ’bout that? Them trees grow thick ’round here.”

“Hey—Father!”

The five-year-old Yoshi followed suit.

Yōkichi shot a glare at Yoshi but, as if denying his own words, immediately began cutting without hesitation.

Ever since losing his mother three years prior, Yōkichi had become able to understand his father’s feelings through the way his father addressed him.
When he called him “Yōkya,” that was when he was at his most lenient.
When he called him “Yōgi” or “Yogitt,” there was still not so much to fear, but when—as now—he said “Yokki” in a scorching tone, there was no doubt that if one resisted even slightly, one would immediately be struck with black soil.

However, Yōkichi—though a twelve-year-old boy—worked all the more vigorously cutting grass and felling shrubs to clear the path for his father’s hoe.
Yoshi was covered in dirt like a little Black slave girl as she carried off the tree roots that the father had dug out from the soil one by one; she had taken on the role of gathering firewood for winter seclusion herself.

As Umezō swung up and down his prized heavy Chinese-style hoe, he kept thinking about how four years earlier—since staying in this village would never get him anywhere—his son had wanted to go somewhere far away, endure the hardship, and somehow save up enough of a modest sum to buy a plot of land he could call his own.
He kept thinking about his son Ichihei, who had left such a note and disappeared.
"That bastard sent letters full of fine words—but what was he really up to?
That Mr. Ryūo from Tennōji—he graduated middle school, studied in Tokyo for three whole years, but when he went somewhere else, he came back saying it was no good at all.
That bastard should’ve come back too."
Umezō had continued dwelling on these thoughts again today.

Ever since Ichihei had disappeared, Umezō had nearly given up thinking about him, and even when he occasionally remembered him, he had merely been concerned for his well-being; but recently, upon receiving letters like that, he found himself wanting to summon Ichihei back.
As his back ached and body wearied, he couldn’t help but think: "If only that bastard were here, I’d have it much easier..."
Just as societal rumors contrasted Ryūo and Ichihei, this comparison never left Umezō’s mind.

“Are you tilling the field?” came an unfamiliar voice calling from afar.

Umezō thrust the handle of the Chinese-style hoe into the ground and looked toward the voice’s direction.
Someone was approaching.
But his eyes—bloodshot and vision thoroughly deteriorated from the smoke lingering in their winter-secluded hut and the fatigue of relentless labor—could not clearly discern it.

“Yōkichi. Who’s that?”

Umezō opened both his eyes and mouth wide, asking in a low voice:
“Who could it be? Not the postman, is it?”

“What? A policeman maybe?”

Umezō opened his eyes wide and parted his lips, then asked in a low voice.

“Who’s that?”
“—Might it be the mail carrier?”

“What?
“The mail?”
“Then maybe Big Brother’s come from somewhere after all.”

“What is it? Could it be the police officer?”

Yōkichi rose from the weeds.

“What’s that? The policeman?”

His way of asking betrayed a hint of panic.
At the same time, an anxious expression seemed to flicker across Umezō’s face.
“Could it be that Ichihei did something wrong?” he thought.
He found himself concerned solely about his son Ichihei.

“Mr. Police Officer—what’s brought him here, I wonder?” Umezō repeated from within his anxiety.

“He’s wearin’ white pants an’ a black coat… but that ain’t Mr. Police Officer, is it?”

Yoshi stood agape, parting the weeds as she strained on tiptoes to get a better look at the person in white pants approaching.
A pale, candy-like strand of snot teetered on the edge of dripping into her mouth.

The bespectacled young man in white pants was now within about ten meters of Umezō.
The old man understood only that this was not a policeman.
But judging him to be some sort of official, he bowed again and again—twice, thrice, even four times in rapid succession.

The thought that “If I keep my head bowed, there probably won’t be any trouble…” had unconsciously stirred within him.

“It’s Ryūo. Ryūo from Tennōji,” the youth introduced himself.

“Ah, is that Mr. Ryūo?…”

Umezō spoke as if remembering something, his tone nostalgic, and walked toward the youth.
Umezō had been employed by Ryūo’s family for many years during his youth.
Ichihei, too, had taken over his father’s work for four or five years until his rural flight.

II

Using the cut green grass as a seat, the two sat down.

“What brings you here today? Out for a stroll in the mountains?” Umezō asked.

“Mountain outings? I’ve reached a point where I can’t indulge in such leisurely things anymore,” replied Ryūo. “Since I was already up here checking on the mountains… Seems my grass has been stolen and even the reeds are getting cut down…”

“Ah. So that’s how ’tis.”

With his bloodshot eyes opened wide, Umezō looked over his figure once more.

“The mountains are truly wonderful,” Ryūo said, surveying his surroundings once more.

“Hmm, the mountains...”
“Well, they’re fine, I s’pose…”

“Wherever I look, everything’s green.
“Truly a vivid palette.”
“And there’s the smell of soil…”
“Truly, nothing beats the countryside.”

He muttered as if to himself.

Umezō strained open his bloodshot eyes and surveyed his surroundings. He twitched his nose as well. Yet to eyes steeped in weeds' green, this was no fresh vista. The soil's brisk scent had so thoroughly saturated his body that it no longer stirred his nostrils. The same sorrow that plagued those surrounded by finery yet blind to its luxury now weighed upon Umezō.

“Why, in Tokyo there ain’t nowhere with such lush green spots as this.”

“Oh.”
“I’d have to go all the way out to the suburbs—to proper countryside areas…”
“When all’s said an’ done, it’s country life that matters.”
“Nothin’ beats a farmer’s way o’ livin’, truly.”

He trailed off like he was talkin’ to himself an’ hung his head.

Ryūo had left for Tokyo three years prior.
He had attended a higher preparatory school with the purpose of preparing for high school entrance examinations.
However, he had been rejected in all three entrance examinations he took.
Now rural life had coiled itself tightly in his heart.

"That's how it is, ain't it?"

"For someone like me, Tokyo just doesn't suit. It's too noisy, too chaotic."
"With that environment, it's no wonder people turn rough. Even just boarding a train feels like squaring up for a fight.—Here, how about one..."

Ryūo took out a pack of Shikishima cigarettes from his pocket and offered it to Umezō.

“Ah, no need for that, no need for that,” Umezō declined. “Yōkichi, fetch the doranko—the tobacco pouch—from over there. And you take a little rest too.”
"Hmm, Yōkichi," he said while pointing to a small chestnut tree.

Yōkichi, who had been standing with a sickle, ran over to retrieve the tobacco pouch hanging on a small chestnut branch in the distance.
During that time, Ryūo remained silent, holding out the pack of Shikishima cigarettes before Umezō.

“Oh my, well now…”

Umezō acted as though it were too precious for him, reverently extracting a single cigarette.
However, though he had extracted it, he hesitated over whether to light such a precious thing.
Meanwhile, Ryūo casually lit up and began puffing greedily.
The smoke hung pale bluish-white, its hues shifting under reflected rays from the dull silver sky—now tinged crimson-purple—as it twisted slowly before being drawn into the thicket of shrubs.

Umezō, his thick lips—framed by an unkempt beard streaked with white—distinctly pursed, strove to fully savor the noble cigarette: a precious smoke he had never once bought himself, received perhaps once a year as a single stick on rare occasions. However, before smoking even half of it, the old man gently crushed it out with the handle of his Chinese hoe. Then he took out Nadeshiko cut tobacco from the pouch and smoked a few puffs.

“Well, rolled cigarettes are too strong for the likes of us.”

“We find cut tobacco too bothersome…” said Ryūo as he lit another cigarette from the smoldering stub.

“When will you be going up to Tokyo this time?”

Umezō, as if suddenly remembering something, lit the half-smoked cigarette again while pursing his lips and asked haltingly.

“I just can’t bring myself to go back to Tokyo anymore.”

“Hahaha…” Umezō exhaled smoke through his laughter.
“So after all, does the countryside suit you better?”

“I’ve been thinking I’ll try my hand at farming this time.”
“I’ve also been thinking I’d like to try my hand at land reclamation, but…”

Having said this, Ryūo was smiling, but his plan was sincere.

“You all bein’ farmers… Even if y’ain’t farmin’, you could work at the town office or even a school…”

“Well, if that’s all it takes…” Ryūo cut off the old man’s words.
“No—being a farmer is what matters most.”
“I stopped going to Tokyo because I want to farm.”
“If I hadn’t, I’d still…”

“Even so, after all you’ve done up till now, it’d be a shame to waste it.”

“Someone like me… I’ve been wrong from the very start,” he said with a smile. “Because we were farmers’ children, we should have just kept farming. It’s like moles venturing into sunlight—we’ve become the world’s laughingstock.” And he muttered inwardly, “Truly, I was a mole that sought light.”

However, to Umezō, nothing beyond the fact that Ryūo wanted to be a farmer was clearly comprehensible.

“Being a farmer—if you actually try it, it’s not such a fine thing after all.”
“From morning till night, slaving away until you’re black as soot!”

“For me, that’s exactly what I want.”
“Working without a single worry, getting black as soot—above all, it’s carefree, you know.”

“Is that so.”
“Ain’t nothin’ good about bein’ too carefree neither.”
“Well, go ahead and try it then.”

“The farmer’s life not being carefree…”
“I find it pleasant just to think about, though.”

Having said this, Ryūo smiled and looked at Umezō’s face.

III

The sun had already sunk westward.
Shrouded in the season's characteristic thin haze, it glowed red like a ripe tomato.
And throughout the scattered mixed forests darkening in evening mist,
the young leaves of fir trees speckled with pale green stood out distinctly.
The green slope brightened as it climbed toward higher ground,
its shadows swept downward like a single brushstroke.
In the lower marsh dense with reed thickets,
Reed Warblers cried out incessantly.

“Father!”
“I’m going home.”
“It’s time to cook rice, so…”

Beside the father, Yōkichi, who had been listening in silence, suddenly stood up.

“Ah.”
“Tend to the fire now.”

“I’m goin’ with Big Brother too,” said Yoshi, who had been playing alone in the dirt, as she darted out from the dust cloud and ran toward Yōkichi.

“Hmm. Hmm.” Umezō responded to that too.

“The rice gets cooked well.”
Ryūo showed a genuinely surprised expression.

“Ah well… There being no mother...”

“Even so, how they manage...”
“After all, the farmer’s life is best.”
“If someone like me had been made to farm since childhood...”—he couldn’t help recalling his own overprivileged upbringing.
“When I was little, I truly knew nothing but crying.”

“I did want to at least let ’em finish school—even just up to sixth grade, or just elementary school. But truth is, for folks like us, even buyin’ a single notebook was a real struggle… So even though they went up to fourth grade, they can’t write a proper letter… When I think of sendin’ a letter to Ichihei wherever he is, they say they can’t even write one…”

Umezō’s plea was tear-filled.

“Where is Mr. Ichihei now?”

“That wanderer’s up in Hokkaido now, Tokachi region… He sent a letter earlier with that address on it, but—”
“—Seems he’s workin’ as a railway laborer.”

“Why, a railway laborer!”
“If Mr. Ichihei were here, Mr. Umezō would find things much easier, though.”

“That’s how it is indeed.
“If that wanderer were here…”
“Even if I think o’ callin’ ’em back, once it comes down to it he won’t come—so this time I’m thinkin’ maybe I oughta say his old man’s fallen sudden ill or somethin’.”

“That’s right—you should find some way to call him back.”
“He can’t keep laboring forever—how about I write him a letter to ensure he comes back?”

Ryūo smirked.

“Please, I beg of you,” Umezō said, bowing his head twice.

IV

A week after Ryūo wrote the letter addressed to Ichihei, Ichihei returned briskly.

Even at that time on that day, Umezō was working in the reclamation field.
Yōkichi, who had gone back to cook rice, came running while shouting, “Big Brother’s come back!” so Umezō shouldered his Chinese-style hoe and shuffled unsteadily back to his hut.

“Oh… It’s Ichihei…”

“Hmm.
“‘Cause they said Father was sick…”

Ichihei had taken off his leather boots, sat cross-legged by the hearth, and was smoking a rolled cigarette.

“It ain’t that I’m sick… But I also…”

Umezō could not continue what he was about to say.
Was it joy, or was it tears? Something welling up in his chest cut off Umezō’s words.

Ichihei had changed completely from the man who had fled under cover of night three years prior.
He had grown his hair long, glossy with oil, and sported a mustache.
Considering the villagers and his father in his thoughts, the five silver buttons on the serge suit he had borrowed from a station worker acquaintance shone like stars.
The leather boots he had bought on monthly installments of one yen and fifty sen from a cobbler who frequented the maintenance section office surprised both the villagers and his father, just as he had expected.

“Ichihei, these sure are fine boots you’ve got here. Even an officer’s boots don’t shine this much,” said Umezō as he tried to shove his large, dirt-caked, gnarled foot into them.

“Father! Don’t, Father. They’re fitted to my feet—your feet won’t fit in ’em…”

“Guess that’s how it is. My feet were never made for boots from birth,” Umezō said, struggling to pull them off after only getting halfway in.

“Folks around Tennōji can’t stop starin’ at these leather boots.”

With these words, Ichihei took out a pack of Shikishima from his pocket.

“That’s how it is. Nobody ’round here owns boots like these.—These rollies pack a punch.”

However, Umezō took one.

Both Ichihei and Umezō felt as though they could hear the villagers' voices echoing in their ears: "Ichihei's really made something of himself."
—Umezō felt that Ichihei, even though his own son, had grown too grand.
That wasn't entirely joy.
Umezō couldn't bring himself to broach the crucial matter—about pulling Ichihei back into the farmer's life again.

When night fell, a single faded and tattered mosquito net was hung.
To Ichihei, it felt somehow nostalgic.
It even seemed tearfully nostalgic.
And so the four family members burrowed into a single futon together for the first time in a while.
Yōkichi and Yoshi, exhausted from the day’s labor, fell asleep immediately.
However, both Umezō and Ichihei seemed wide awake, and what with the fleas being terrible, they couldn’t fall asleep for quite some time.
The two of them continued tossing and turning for a long time.

“You must’ve had it real hard being alone all this time.”

Ichihei addressed his father in this manner.

“Hmm.
“And so, I thought maybe I’d ask you to come back home once, even though you’re finally startin’ to make somethin’ of yourself.”
“And so…”

Umezō said in a hesitant tone.
Ichihei remained silent for a while, but eventually spoke in a solemn tone.

“Well then, Father, why don’t you come to Hokkaido too?”
“If you go to Hokkaido and become a railroad crossing guard or something...!”
“Being a railroad crossing guard is great, Father!”

“A railroad crossing guard?”
“Do I have to wear Western clothes and put on boots?”
“Could someone like me even manage that?”

“But that kind of thing—anyone can do it.”
“When the train comes, you just have to wave the flag.”

“But then me wearin’ Western clothes and boots—I’d look downright ridiculous.”

“Father, you’re talking such foolish nonsense…”

Ichihei continued to expound on what an excellent profession being a railroad crossing guard was for the elderly.
He elaborated in detail—that they, father and son, could rent part of a government residence; that if the two of them drew salaries together, they might become quite well-off; that they would receive clothing allowances; and above all, that prices were low.

“After all, Father—how much d’you make in a day from land reclamation?”

“Well now, since your time here—with each tsubo goin’ up five rin—comes to ’bout seventy-five sen a day.”
“When the weather’s fair an’ I take out that Chinese hoe, I clear sixteen-seventeen tsubo.”

“Clearin’ sixteen-seventeen tsubo must be rough work, eh?”

“Hmm.”
“The reclamation pay’s good here ’cause you can’t clear even a single hoe’s worth.”
“Deep diggin’, y’know.”

“The crossin’ guard job might start at fifty sen a day—but the work’s easy, Father!”

“Fifty-five sen would be fine.”
“Days you can count on.”
“For someone like me, since I can’t work on bad weather days, well… I’m sure my daily average doesn’t even reach forty sen.”

Ichihei remained staring into the pitch-black darkness and stayed silent for some time.
Though one *shō* of rice cost nearly thirty sen, that a family of three could survive on forty sen a day—something he himself had once lived through—now struck Ichihei as nothing short of miraculous.
They had been granted a parcel of land around the hut—free for ten years before transitioning to perpetual tenancy—but with only Umezō working it, they couldn’t produce any meaningful harvest beyond what sustained them as a dwelling.
After this prolonged silence, Ichihei spoke.

“That’s why, Father—you should just come to Hokkaido with me.”

“But I hate the thought of ending up as soil in Hokkaido.
“I don’t know when I’d start wantin’ to come back, and if I leave here now, what little I can call my home’ll disappear for good.”

“This ain’t even your own land here! It’d be no different no matter where we go!”

“But y’know…”
“If I stay put like this, nobody’ll ever tell me to leave till I die.”
“Take Haruyoshi from Tennōji and them—they all sold their plots and left, now they’re dyin’ to come back but can’t lift a finger to return.”
“Nothin’ beats the ground you first drew breath on.”
“Even if there’s nothin’ left…”

The conversation lapsed into silence for a time.
Ichihei said nothing either.
A tear-laden atmosphere hung in the air.

“Well then, Father—I’ll send you five yen every month. Five yen every month,” said Ichihei, feeling his face grow hot.

“Right.”
“Well then—I’ll keep enduring till you make something of yourself and come back. By then I’ll have bought myself even just a scrap of land.”

They could not be satisfied with just the perpetual tenancy land.
Ichihei gave no answer.
However, a sorrowful farewell was promised once more.

Five

Umezō had scarcely any free time.
Though Ichihei had at last come home, and though his departure for Hokkaido had been fixed once again, there remained no opportunity for proper conversation.
Leaving Ichihei behind in the dim hut,
he still shouldered his Chinese hoe and had to set out early each morning.

“Why not rest awhile?
Ah, Father!”

It was on the morning of the third day after his return that Ichihei said this.

“Well, since the weather’s good, I should go earn a bit. We can still talk tonight anyway…”

“Father, I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow morning? Blast—that’s too damn soon! You should’ve stayed a bit longer…”

Umezō blinked his bloodshot eyes, put down the Chinese hoe he’d picked up, and returned to the hearthside. Then he pulled out his pipe.

“But I’m busy too, y’know. They’re all waitin’ on me, y’know.”

“No matter how busy you are.”

Umezō seemed slightly irritated.

“Mr. Ryūo from Tennōji keeps saying there’s nothing like farming—but those are exactly the folks who don’t have to farm at all! Yet they come crawling back like that, all ’cause the land they were born on feels so precious…”
“What’s the reason for that, I wonder?”
“You’re the one heading off to foreign parts, but…”
“I’ve been getting weaker lately too…”

Tears welled up in Umezō’s bloodshot eyes.
They were quietly spilling over onto his cheeks.

“It ain’t like I’m goin’ cause I want to either, Father.
If we could live like Mr. Ryūo and them—doin’ just what we please—then where’d I leave you, Father? Even I… wouldn’t have no cause to go off to Hokkaido or nothin’…”

Ichihei spoke these words haltingly, but upon reaching this point, his speech was completely cut off by something heavy lying across his chest.
And he became aware that his eyelids were gradually growing hot.

“Yōkichi.
“Go to Tennōji and buy some glutinous rice.”
“And prepare some lily roots for Big Brother to eat.”

Yōkichi, who had been lying by the hearth, immediately sat up.

“How many shō?”

“Buy two shō.
Prepare a generous amount…”

Umezō took out the paper-wrapped money he had tucked into his obi and handed it to Yōkichi.
Yōkichi shouldered the soiled cloth bundle and left immediately.

“Well then, Ichihei, I’ll go dig up some lily roots and come back.”

“Hmm… If only Father would stop struggling like this and just go to Hokkaido!”

From behind his father, who was leaving with a sickle in hand, Ichihei muttered as if to himself.

Umezō had thought it over in many ways, but he simply couldn't bring himself to leave the land where he was born.
His son had said that if he went to Hokkaido, a peaceful life awaited him.
He could live together with the son he could rely on.

However, no matter what happiness might await him, Umezō could not bring himself to abandon his ancestors’ graves, leave the land where he was born, and go live in some unfamiliar foreign place.

Ichihei said, “What’s there to cling to in this land that isn’t even yours—not a single clod of earth belongs to you? What reason can there be to linger?”

But if his father were to speak his mind—wasn’t it precisely because he didn’t possess even a single clod of earth as his own that he clung to it?
If by chance there had been even a single tsubo of land in this birthplace of theirs—land they could return to as their own—then perhaps Umezō might have resolved to go with his son.…

At last, the morning of Ichihei's departure arrived.

The distance to the town where trains ran was nearly three ri.
Ichihei rose around two in the middle of the night and began preparing for his journey.
The long walking time was urging him on.

“Well then, you still set on goin’?”

When Umezō saw Ichihei fully prepared to leave, tears began falling as he spoke.

“Take care of yourself and stay strong, Father!”
“I’ll send five yen every month…”

As he said this, Ichihei’s eyes glimmered in the dim lantern light.

Amidst their impoverished life, now that he was truly being left behind, even Umezō felt an urge to follow along.
But within him lay the sorrow of moles—those who forsake the soil for light and those forbidden from returning to earth.
For him who had been born from soil and lived by soil, the soil itself formed part of his being.
To him, a life without soil remained unimaginable.

Because he absolutely wanted to catch the first train, Ichihei left the hut in the reclaimed field while it was still night.

“This time, there’s no telling when we’ll meet again.”
“I should walk you that far at least…”

Umezō, still with tears pooling in his eyes, insisted on seeing Ichihei off despite his attempts to stop him, saying that Yōkichi and Yoshi would surely not wake up.

Outside was a hazy moonlit night.
The moon, as if shrouded in gauzy silk, was lazily traversing the sky.
The villages appeared to float like a dream, veiled in a thin haze.
Even the lights flickering through the trees were too entrancing to be considered real.
The voices of frogs flowed softly, and there was also a solo voice singing in a unique tone.
...

Memories of the past surged dimly in Ichihei's heart.
The preciousness of the land where he was born now became something mystical in his heart through some mysterious power.
He felt he could somewhat understand his father’s feelings.

“Father! I’ll save up some money and come back within two or three years, so stay healthy, Father!”

“You’re the one who needs to take care of yourself. If you were to fall ill in some foreign land you don’t know…” Umezō could not continue speaking, his words blocked by tears.

Suddenly drained of vigor, Ichihei dragged his leather boots—polished and gleaming in the hazy moonlight—as he walked down the gentle slope with weakened strength. In the distant forest, an owl had been hooting since some time ago.

――Taishō 15 (1926), Bungei Kurabu September Issue――